


Belonging

by slipper007



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Castiel Has Mental Health Issues (Supernatural), Castiel Has Self-Worth Issues (Supernatural), Episode: s11e02 Form and Void, Episode: s11e03 The Bad Seed, Episode: s11e04 Baby, Episode: s11e06 Our Little World, Episode: s11e10 The Devil in the Details, Gen, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, References to Depression, References to Torture, Season/Series 11, borrows dialogue from the episodes, i have been working on this since september and am ready to chuck it into the void of the internet, i've never actually written time gaps like this before so hopefully it's okay, please forgive my pacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29143311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipper007/pseuds/slipper007
Summary: Without a word, Castiel dropped his legs over the edge and patted the spot on the bed next to him. Dean took a seat and handed over a few photographs, an FBI badge, and a wallet. His belongings, Cas realized. Castiel smiled fondly at them but didn’t take them. But if Dean had these then—“Where’s my coat?”“I threw it in the wash. Figured I’d bring you your things.” After Dean put everything on his nightstand, he pulled out Castiel’s angel blade with hesitation, suddenly unable to meet Cas’ piercing gaze.“I, uh, I am sorry about before, with the uh…”“It wasn’t you,” Castiel responded easily. “If you didn’t have the Mark, you wouldn’t have done it.” Silence hung in the air for a moment as they both thought about the fight, of Castiel left beaten on the floor of the library. “Besides, after today…”“That wasn’t you,” Dean reassured in turn. “I know.”If only Cas could see beyond the damage he had done, could feel past the anger with himself.In the aftermath of the attack dog spell, Castiel finds himself facing a new struggle in his mind.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	Belonging

**Author's Note:**

> **TW: References to Depression and persistent Negative Thinking / Self-Worth Issues.**  
>  It's portrayed halfway between how I experience it and how I imagine Castiel handles it, based off the canon material.
> 
> AN: Probably best if you've watched the episodes tagged, I jump a bit (sorry)

When Efram and Jonah decided they were done taking out their grievances, they decided they wanted information: the whereabouts of the traitor, Metatron; the location of the Men of Letters Bunker; the content of the angel and demon tablets. Every valuable piece of information Castiel had. Over and over, they questioned him and slid his blade against exposed skin, smirking as he flinched away from it time and time again.

Hannah’s arrival was a momentary reassurance before she, too, showed her true colors. He meant nothing to them, was only means to an end.

“Last chance. Where are the Winchesters Castiel?”

Castiel felt dread sit heavy in his gut as the cold, metal helmet slipped against his sweat-dampened skin but found it in himself to lift his head defiantly. “I told you, I won’t give you Sam and Dean.”

It was the wrong answer. Jonah placed the first pin and Castiel cried out, feeling it sink deeper and deeper into his skull and paralyzing his vessel. He had always hated this method of torture and hated this pin the most. Each pin stripped something away, whether it was a sense such as touch or simply voluntary control of a vessel. The temporary loss of senses or the disappearance of a few memories was bearable, in comparison. Becoming a bystander, a prisoner in his own mind, was not.

He could see Efram directly in front of him, arms crossed impatiently. Off to the side was Hannah, obviously displeased but complicit. Castiel felt anger rise up within himself. Everything he had done for Hannah, everything he had given up for Heaven, culminated in this.

_“The other angels, they hate you.”_

Hannah, too, it seemed.

Castiel lost count of the pins pressed into his skull and tried to focus on contacting help. He prayed for any sympathy from his brothers and sisters, for even one to intervene. He prayed that Hannah was wrong, that at least one would try to help. When no one did, he prayed for a human.

“Human prayer is one-way communication,” someone reminded him, taking out some of the pins in order to try again. “If you’re trying to contact your precious Winchesters, they’re never going to get here in time.”

Castiel bowed his head. They were right.

The next set of pins felt worse. His head ached, his ears rang, and he felt like he would be sick. Another pin slid into place and he screamed, both from the pain and from feeling the spell start to take over. No, no, no, he couldn’t lose control. Not again, not now.

“Enough!”

Cas’ bloodshot eyes drifted to Hannah, now storming towards them. His hands started to shake and pull against the restraints. He had to get free, he had to get away. It was too strong; the spell would kill them all if he didn’t get out. His legs were numb, feeling stolen by a pin lodged in his brain. He would have to fight it, he had to.

“Look, you don't want to get your pretty hands dirty, fine. Walk away. But this is happening. Gimme. Now hold still. This one might hurt.”

Castiel braced for a pin that never came, still fighting to keep control.

“I said stop.”

Castiel heard the struggle, a body hitting the floor before it was drowned out by the chorus of voices in his head.

“I will end you!”

The spell bit deeper and Castiel felt it take over just as it had a mere day ago with Crowley. He was suppressed, pushed into a corner of his mind. Was this how vessels felt? What Jimmy had felt? Overridden? He could see parts of the fight, he watched the light leave Hannah’s eyes, and then it all went black. When he came back to himself, he could feel the cold slick metal of an angel blade in his hand. His stomach flipped.

Three more of his brothers and sisters dead by his hand.

Castiel dropped his blade, barely hearing the empty metal clang as it hit as he stumbled backwards until he finally sunk to the floor with them, horrified by the scene in front of him. He was losing, and this was the cost. He mourned his sister, who was once so kind and understanding. Maybe she could have been again, if given the chance. If he had done better, maybe he could have saved her. He mourned Efram and Jonah as well. They were still his brothers. None of them deserved to die.

He felt Rowena’s curse cut into him a little deeper and winced, clutching his head. The pain was bearable, even welcome to distract him from the carnage and his growing fear of what he would be made to do, but the unrelenting drive of the spell, the desire to find and kill Crowley, was nearly irresistible. Castiel could feel it consuming him, making his thoughts vanish and trying to take away control of his vessel yet again. Head on the cool cement floor, he was unkindly reminded of what it had been like to be possessed by the leviathan, with their whispering demands echoing in his head until they became his own and their sudden seizure of his control.

He didn’t know how long he stayed, but he soon enough found himself on his feet and walking. He wore his coat over top of the handcuffs to hide them from oncoming motorists and managed to find a road to lead him back to Lebanon. The walk was quiet, characterized by a lack of traffic and an overabundance of thought. With the pins removed, he could hear angel radio again. He could hear the chaos as the angels realized that Hannah was dead. He could feel their anger, their despair. He would never be able to make this right.

Hannah had been right: the other angels hated him. To lose his siblings and what small semblance of family he had left almost hurt more than the torture.

He was alone.

///

The Bunker was silent, still a mess as the Stynes had left it. The bodies were gone, but the blood remained. Some of it was his own, Castiel realized dizzily. It was here that he had been beaten within an inch of his life, threatened by someone he trusted. He had known what he was getting himself into, he had known that Dean was losing control and spinning out, but he had never expected his life to be so close to over.

Castiel collapsed onto the floor as pain wracked his head. _Kill Crowley._ Was this how the Mark had been for Dean? Did it call him to murder and maim like the spell did for Cas?

He was barely conscious when the Winchesters got home, only able to murmur a weak “Help me” before succumbing.

When he came to, he was cleaned up somewhat. His thoughts were all a jumble, but he was vaguely aware of what was going on, enough so to contribute to the conversation.

///

“Metatron is also off the grid. He stole your car in Blaine, Missouri, right?” Castiel nodded from his chair and Sam continued. “Yeah, no accidents, incidents, violations, or anything remotely interesting involving a crappy ’78 Continental Mark 5.”

Castiel felt hurt wash over him. “You think it’s crappy?” He looked to both of the Winchesters, hoping one of them disagreed.

Dean cut in swiftly. “Eye of the beholder.”

Sam agreed and went back to typing.

“Well, shut-in for centuries, former scribe of God, you wouldn’t think he would be a good driver,” Castiel reasoned aloud.

“You know, I’ll look for unusual occurrences…”

Castiel felt himself drift and his eyes grow unfocused. The curse was biting deeper and deeper, all the way down and into his being. He tried to stave it off, but everything seemed futile.

“Cas?” Sam asked, drawing his attention back.

“Places where Metatron might hang out?” Dean helpfully supplied.

“Um, I mean he loves waffles, you could try places that have those.”

“Okay, so, every restaurant in the entire country.”

Castiel frowned deeply, feeling the pulsating of the ache in his head growing sharper and cutting further into his skull, all too reminiscent of Naomi’s drilling—

Just like that, he was thrown aside again, shoved into a corner. He was drowning in his mind as it was taken over. His body was exploding in the lake. Voices screamed over and over again, and he couldn’t make sense of them all. A few were his siblings, a few were leviathan, a few were his own, and loudest of all –

_Kill Crowley._

_Kill Crowley. Kill Crowley. Kill Crowley. Kill Crowley. Kill Crowley. Kill Crowley. Kill Crowley. Kill Crowley. Kill Crowley. Kill Crowley. Kill Crowley. Kill Crowley._

_“Cas? Hey!”_

Castiel felt his hands clench before realizing that he could feel his body.

_“Cas?”_

The voice was almost drowned out by the thousands of others in his head, but he latched onto it and pulled himself back.

When his vision cleared, he saw first Sam then Dean looming over him.

“Cas? Hey. Are you okay?”

Castiel didn’t even know where to start answering that, wasn’t even sure of his bearings yet. In a weak gravel, he asked, “Relative to what?”

 **“** You know where you are? What's the date?”

Dean was always so helpful. Always trying to clarify, make sure he understood.

“Earth,” he breathed. “Several billion years from the beginning.”

Dean seemed content with that and helped him sit up. Castiel’s head spun and throbbed.

“Cas, what was that? You scared the crap out of us.”

“I blacked out for a lot of it. But I...” Castiel swallowed. Could he tell them? Could he let them see how scared he was, how close he was to losing this battle? “I don't know. It overwhelmed me. I-I couldn't control it.”

///

He tried to make himself useful while the Winchesters searched for Rowena. It was his fault that she was loose in the world. The least he could do was find Metatron. He made it as far as Fortune Nookie, despite his best efforts. Sam had written out every step and Castiel had still managed to screw it up, just like he did with everything.

His head throbbed sharply and left him breathless. 

_“Impetus bestiarum.”_

_Kill Crowley._

_“You don’t have to do this,” he’d said._

_Kill Crowley._

_Castiel stood over Crowley’s corpse, angel blade lodged firmly in his back._

_But something went wrong._

_Next was Jonah, impaled as he tried to attack._

_Hannah stood to warn him before being stabbed herself. Efram would pay for that._

_Castiel used the chain of the cuffs to strangle him, the spell enjoying the physicality, watching him struggle for air before he broke free. Then he, too, was stabbed and killed._

_Not Crowley. No, he was still alive, still waiting to be found. The spell yearned to strangle him, to crush his throat with his bare hands. Crowley had to die._

_“Cas!”_

Was that…Dean? Castiel fought his way to consciousness, struggling to hold it tightly enough.

“Cas! Don't do this.”

What was he doing? With horror, he felt the warmth of a throat in his hands. A woman’s throat. Where was he? What had he done?

“Okay, this isn't you. It's the spell. You can beat this.” What if he couldn’t? He was barely keeping his head above water; how could he fight?

“Cas... Let her go.”

Shaking with the effort, Castiel managed to just long enough for her to get away.

“Hey. Okay, okay.” Dean’s hands brushed his shoulder. “It's gonna be okay, buddy, alright?”

No, no it wasn’t. Castiel could feel his hands twitching, aching to kill something. He was losing, slipping back into his mind. His voice screamed at Dean to get away, to save himself before he lost control again, but Dean couldn’t hear him. _Nobody could hear him._

With that horrifying realization, he sank back under and the spell took control.

 _“Please,”_ he begged. _“Not Dean. I can’t kill Dean, too.”_

His fists still came down, struck Dean over and over. He was bleeding, his blood was warm on Cas’ hands. Feeling ill, Castiel remembered this same feeling when he was under Naomi’s control. He remembered being forced to kill, how Dean had broken through to him last time, but deep down he knew it wouldn’t work again. This was where Dean Winchester would die, and Castiel was powerless to stop it.

“Desiste.”

The words echoed in his mind and his fists stopped raining down. Castiel breathed a sigh of relief as feeling flooded back into his body. He was almost in control again.

“Adlevo onus tuum.”

These words burned, he felt the spell release him as though excised, cut away like bad tissue. Part of it felt purifying, if painful. No longer having to fight inside his own mind, he felt exhaustion wash over him in waves.

“Cas?”

The cold of Dean’s hand against his cheek roused him. The first thing he saw was the blood smeared along his brow, the swelling already marring his cheek. How did he even start to apologize?

Dean helped him up, held his head as the weight of it all threatened to pull him back to earth. Maybe this was why it all went wrong. Dean was too busy helping him to stop Rowena.

The car ride back to the Bunker was quiet. Dean reassured him that Rowena would have gotten away anyway, that it wasn’t Cas’ fault, but they all knew that wasn’t true, didn’t they? The Winchesters were just being nice.

“You look rough,” Dean said when Sam had left the room. “Go take a shower or a nap or something.”

“I’m an angel.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean readjusted the icepack on his face and Castiel felt guilt course through him again. “You look beat.”

“Alright,” he acquiesced. He was tired of fighting; he’d had more than his share lately.

“Hey.” Cas turned. “Leave your clothes outside the door. I’ll loan you something.”

///

A knock at the door caught Castiel’s attention and he turned.

“Coming in.”

Without a word, Castiel dropped his legs over the edge and patted the spot on the bed next to him. Dean took a seat and handed over a few photographs, an FBI badge, and a wallet. His belongings, Cas realized. Castiel smiled fondly at them but didn’t take them. But if Dean had these then—

“Where’s my coat?”

“I threw it in the wash. Figured I’d bring you your things.” After Dean put everything on his nightstand, he pulled out Castiel’s angel blade with hesitation, suddenly unable to meet Cas’ piercing gaze.

“I, uh, I _am_ sorry about before, with the uh…”

“It wasn’t you,” Castiel responded easily. “If you didn’t have the Mark, you wouldn’t have done it.” Silence hung in the air for a moment as they both thought about the fight, of Castiel left beaten on the floor of the library. “Besides, after today…”

“That wasn’t you,” Dean reassured in turn. “I know.”

If only Cas could see beyond the damage he had done, could feel past the anger with himself.

Castiel let out a heavy sigh. “Please just…” His hand reached out to cup Dean’s face, to heal the bruising and swelling marring his features, but Dean dodged it.

“No, Cas.” Castiel felt his face fall, and Dean amended himself. “But thank you.”

“Mmm,” he hummed back, gaze drifting down to his hands. His head throbbed as it had been for days, likely a lingering effect of the spell. He didn’t realize how his head had sunk into his hands until Dean reached out and brushed against his shoulder.

“Cas. Hey. You okay?”

“Head,” he mumbled. Castiel summoned enough grace to make his palm glow, but soon enough, it flickered out. His headache abated, for a while at least.

“What’s wrong with your grace?”

Castiel wanted to let out a bitter, hollow laugh. What was wrong with it? More things than he could count.

“Is it because of the Fall?”

Everything he wanted to say, he bit back. If he admitted that he had never truly recovered from Purgatory, that the grace substitutes he had been forced to use had left him scarred on a sub-molecular level, that he had only just gotten back whatever fragments of his grace were left, Dean would finally see how broken and battered he was. He was useless. Weak. The spell had proven that. If it could cast him aside so easily, even within his own vessel, what was to stop the Winchesters once they realized?

“I’m just tired.”

///

A few weeks passed slowly. Castiel entered the kitchen to see Sam making himself some spinach smoothies and putting them in the green cooler with beer, presumably for Dean. Sam jumped as he turned.

“Oh, hey Cas.”

“Sam,” Castiel greeted in turn. His eyes drifted to the cooler. “Are you going on a hunt?”

“Yeah. Uh, mauled body outside of Eugene, Oregon. Figured it’s worth looking into.”

Castiel nodded. “I’ll get my things and meet you by the car.”

“Cas—” He turned back, and Sam met his eyes. “Stay here. You’ve had a rough go of it and you’re still not fully healed.”

“I can help.”

“You can help by getting better, Cas. We’ll be back soon.”

Castiel frowned deeply and was about to argue before Sam cut him off.

“Got you this at the store,” he said, pulling a phone out of his pocket. “It’s already set up with our numbers. Couldn’t get the same model as before but this is pretty similar.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said, taking it. “But Sam, I don’t think you should—”

“Cas, it’s a straightforward case. We’ll be back in no time.”

He smiled reassuringly and left Castiel in the kitchen.

///

“Hey, Cas. Everything all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Castiel reassured, ignoring the throb of his head. “I was just reading up about the other cases in the area that you’re headed to. I haven’t found anything yet that matches.”

“Cas, you’ve got one job to do and that’s to heal. You understand?”

“I can help.”

“Yeah, of course you can, Cas, but right now is the time for you to focus on getting better. This is just a milk run. We got it. So… Try and relax.”

“Alright,” Castiel reluctantly agreed.

“Read a book, watch some Netflix.”

“What’s a ‘Netflix’?”

Sam’s tone was amused when he spoke next. “Go to my room, turn on the TV. You’ll figure it out.”

“Alright.” Castiel tried to hide the note of reluctance in his voice. “Just call if you need anything.”

“Got it, Cas. Thanks.”

Castiel took the phone away from his ear for a moment, ready to hang up, when he heard a little more.

“You think he’s gonna be okay?”

The line went dead.

Castiel’s stomach clenched guiltily. He was the last thing they should be worrying about right now. Amara was missing, Rowena had vanished with the Book of the Damned and the codex, and Metatron was gone as well with the tablet. Two of those were directly on himself, Castiel realized. He never should have let Metatron get the jump on him, as Dean would say. And he knew Rowena would have an escape plan after removing the Mark of Cain, yet he hadn’t been prepared. To make matters worse, he had almost killed Crowley, potentially converting him from reluctant ally to enthusiastic enemy.

How could he relax with so much on his conscience?

Castiel kept himself busy instead. He cleaned up some of the library books that had been left out and put away the clean dishes. He took a walk and watched the sun rise with each step. He got back and took another. After a shower, he settled back into the library.

Noon, it was only just noon, he realized after glancing at his phone. Half of him wanted to call Sam or Dean just to check that they were okay but he knew they were. They would call him if they needed him.

If.

The word settled uncomfortably in his mind. If he was needed. He knew he wasn’t, they all knew that. He was too broken to be helpful. It was why he had been left behind. To think that he had even thought they would call, that they would even entertain the thought…

He set his phone down and looked for something to do, something that needed to be done. He looked at the cars upstairs in the garage, but Dean had already washed them all. His heart ached for a moment. He missed his vehicle, even if no one else had liked it. Maybe it would have looked nice up here, like it belonged.

He doubted it. It didn’t fit in; it was too different. Maybe not broken, but too strange. It was “crappy,” worthless compared to the vintage cars in the garage, and Dean’s well-cared for impala. It wouldn’t have belonged no matter what the Winchesters said. He knew, deep down, he was the same way.

Castiel left the garage and went to the shooting range. The gun didn’t feel right in his hands, but he fired it anyway, just to get some practice in. If he had more skills, maybe he could make himself useful. As it turned out, there was no point in even trying. He missed the target completely. He didn’t bother trying again; that would just waste the bullets. He stripped and cleaned the weapon instead but only that one. Dean had already cleaned the others.

The library was much the same. Sam had cleaned and organized the space and kept up with it. Apart from the books he had put away yesterday, there was nothing for Castiel to do. He knew better than to go in their rooms and doing the laundry was out of the question.

The more he looked, the more desolate he felt. The Winchesters kept up with the cleaning and had divided the work—all of it—according to their interests, their spaces. The Bunker was their home, Castiel was merely a temporary guest. As soon as he was healed, he would have to leave again.

After some aimless wandering, he ended up in the kitchen staring at the bulletin board. The faded green felt backing was covered in old documents, older than Sam or Dean. He found some strange solace in that. Some of the papers had hung there since the 1930s while others were dated for the 1950s; they were undisturbed by the Winchesters, giving Castiel reason to believe they would stay there longer.

After a while, he slumped forwards onto the table and rested his head on his arms. The kitchen was quiet when no one was home. The whole Bunker was. It was equal parts soothing and unsettling, and after a time Castiel caught his vessel drifting off and made his way back to his own room.

The next day, he woke with the sun, or at least, he thought he did. He couldn’t truly be sure unless he went outside. His stomach growled and Castiel felt dread like ice in his veins. Was he really so weak? First the sleeping, and now this. Being useless was bad enough as an angel but a useless human was even worse than that.

Thankfully, his phone rang before his thoughts could grow too loud.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Cas!” Dean’s voice was warm and inviting. “How’re you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel lied. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yeah,” he replied, though his tone had changed into something more formal. “I saw the body, and it’s not a werewolf.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Well, the heart was missing, but it was completely drained. Could you look into the lore for any kind of werewolf and vampire hybrid?” Dean was silent for a moment before he gleefully mumbled something.

“What?”

“Were-pire,” Dean repeated triumphantly.

Castiel felt a small smile play at his lips, the first one in he didn’t know how long. “Alright, Dean, I’ll look for anything that feeds on hearts and blood.”

“Like a were-pire.”

Castiel shook his head, even knowing that Dean couldn’t see it. “I’ll call you when I find something.”

“Sounds good. And Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“We mean it. Sit down, watch some crap show, and focus on getting better.”

“I—” Castiel bit at his lip. “I’ll try.”

“Good. Talk later.”

Dean hung up and Castiel was left in the silence again.

Begrudgingly, he got up and made his way to the kitchen. He was worse than useless if he let himself get distracted, so he needed to keep up with his vessel’s demands. The peanut butter and jelly sandwich tasted more real than it had a year ago, less like individual molecules and more like he remembered. It was terrifying to realize.

The next stop was the library, where he started by pulling books based off memory. Hearts and blood, what would feed on hearts and blood? He pulled out a chair and started on the hefty stack of books he had amassed.

After a few hours, his head began to hurt again and his eyes stopped focusing on the printed words in front of him. Maybe just a short break… Sam’s room was fairly tidy, and Netflix was as easy to operate as he had said. Before too long, he was engrossed in a show, the warm light of the television the only thing able to hold his attention. He tore himself away after a few episodes to read a little more when he found it. A Whisper, that sounded like the right creature!

///

After talking to Dean, his stomach knotted and his chest filled with ice. His misinformation, the thought that the creature was a Whisper, had nearly gotten Dean killed.

The world was too loud, too much with only that realization in his head. He would have to do better, try harder. He needed to prove he wasn’t as useless as he seemed, even without his failing powers, but when he cracked open a book to keep researching, he found he couldn’t focus. The world was loud but the room was quiet, too quiet. Begrudgingly, he turned the television back on.

A day or so must have passed before the tiredness settled back in. Castiel didn’t know anymore. Somewhere along the line, he had managed to read a little bit, but it had been fruitless. He had distracted himself via the television and generally by being in the warm environment of Sam’s room. While certainly not as decorated and lived-in as Dean’s, Sam’s room had a charm all its own. His flannels were lined neatly behind the door, the lighting was warm hues of amber, and Castiel felt at peace for a time. Still, as he caught himself starting to nod off, he knew he needed to move on.

His room was empty and cold when he returned to it. The walls were bare, the chests were empty, the bed was bland with only the borrowed blanket. His nightstand held his few possessions: his angel blade, a few crumpled photos, and the FBI badge. Jimmy’s wallet sat next to them and Castiel felt himself collapse onto the bed.

Jimmy Novak. A good man. A devout man, trying to do what was best for his daughter. Castiel had killed him. Him and his wife both, and left their daughter to fend for herself for over five years. Nothing would make that right.

He put the wallet in the drawer of his nightstand, hoping that having it out of sight would alleviate some of his guilt. It didn’t.

///

When the Winchesters got back the next day, Castiel could only stare in shock. The Impala was a mess, missing most of her glass and horribly dented. Worse than the state of the car was the state of the people inside. They got out with a groan, various cuts and bruises on their faces and undoubtedly worse injuries hidden. Cas caught a glimpse of what looked like a bite mark on Dean’s neck, though the blood from one ear hid much. Sam favored a leg and Dean had bruises on his wrists from being restrained.

Castiel’s fingers twitched, aching to heal them both, but the grace didn’t come. No one was mortally wounded this time, but what about next time? What about the time after that? Castiel felt his chest tighten and his breathing quicken. He was useless. He couldn’t heal them, and they would undoubtedly come back more injured. It was certain in this line of work. Castiel knew how that would end. Overwhelmed, he tried to turn on his heel to go back to his room, but his muscles wouldn’t respond. He was frozen in place and struggled to breathe, even his lungs seemingly overcome.

“Hey, Cas!” Dean called out, seemingly having seen him by the door. Castiel tried to reply but only felt his lips part, no sound escaping. He barely heard him, though Sam’s hand on his shoulder a moment later made him feel as though he was combusting. Sam stood directly in front of him now, looking straight into his eyes with concern. He was saying something, but it was too muffled. His own thoughts were far too loud. Sam’s gaze shifted down and Castiel followed it all the way down to his own hand. It shook badly but he couldn’t get it to stop so he shoved it in his pocket. The feeling of photos and leather against his skin calmed him.

“Sam,” he finally managed to rasp out. “How was the hunt?”

“A little more than we bargained for,” Sam admitted. Castiel could see that he was worried but was distanced from it. Maybe this was what Dean had meant when he talked about feeling spacey. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel said.

There was a long pause. Sam clearly had something to say, but Cas knew what it was. He didn’t want to hear it.

_“You’re broken.”_

Castiel turned on his heel and left.

///

“You sound weird, okay? Bad weird.”

Dean’s voice was soothing, better than the shouting on _Jenny Jones_ as she announced paternity results, but it still couldn’t hold Castiel’s attention.

“…I’m telling you, whatever you're looking for, you won't find it in there, so do me a favor. Turn off the TV. Go outside and get some air. We're in the dark here, pal. I need you back in the game, okay?”

Castiel sighed as Dean hung up. So _that_ was why he’d called. They needed him, or so they said. He wasn’t contributing as much as they wanted. They needed him to step up, to go back to how he used to be.

Castiel managed to pry himself away from the tv and headed up the steps, feeling his nerves grow worse with every step. What if he hurt someone? What if he was too broken to go back to how he had been?

The memories flooded back in a tangent.

_Castiel was beating Dean, the harsh sound of punches echoing over Dean telling him it was okay, that he could beat this. Castiel couldn’t. He couldn’t control it._

_Efram’s screams as he had killed Hannah, again and again. He had directed his frustration with Castiel onto her and then killed her. She had lit up the room for seconds before being gone, burnt out. Castiel cried out, knowing it was too late to save her._

_Crowley asking him to stop, to spare him, to overcome the spell. His body had hit the ground like a sack of flour. Castiel had felt his angel blade hit the floor, pinning Crowley’s corpse there._

_Dean beating him, Castiel unwilling to fight back. That didn’t mean that Dean had pulled any punches. If anything, it seemed to make him angrier. He felt his head snap back, his lungs empty of air, blood drip from his mouth._

His chest was tight, heaving in and out as he struggled to overcome his mind.

_“Look at how far you’ve fallen.”_

He couldn’t. He couldn’t leave, couldn’t show them all how broken he was.

Castiel went back to the tv and gradually felt himself calm, hating himself more with every second.

///

It had been days since he’d seen Metatron and all of the anger bubbling just under the surface of his skin was gone. He was numb to it now. He had a mission; he had to find a weapon strong enough to take out Amara, and weapons like that simply didn’t exist in America. No, he needed to go back to where it all had started.

Castiel packed himself a small duffle bag, more to keep up appearances and to bring things back than anything else. He couldn’t simply fly from place to place instantly anymore.

He looked at his belongings: his angel blade, a few crumpled photos, and a borrowed FBI badge. He thought back to his every attempt at passing as FBI and found it to be a miserable line of failures. Sam and Dean knew what they were doing, they could pass so easily and fill a role seamlessly. Castiel couldn’t even pass as human. Or as an angel, for that matter.

He left the badge.

He wouldn’t need it in Gaza anyway.

///

On his way back from Gaza, he waited in an airport terminal. It was busy, bustling with people, but Castiel had never felt more alone.

His hands brushed against his belongings in his pocket: his angel blade and a few crumpled photos. He took out the latter, hoping they would bring him comfort.

They were ruined now. They’d been folded one too many times, run through the washer at least once. He could barely see what they use to be, even knowing they had been the Winchesters. It didn’t matter, they were trash now. He ruined everything he touched.

He boarded his flight, longing for his ruined wings.

///

The forest was dark and deep and Ambriel was gone, vanished somewhere into it. Maybe she was right.

_“We’re both expendable.”_

Seeing her consumed only drove that home.

He reached a hand into his pocket out of habit but there was nothing there. All that was left was the cold metal of his angel blade, able to be felt through the sleeve of his shirt. It wasn’t even his. He had lost his years ago in some fight or another. He couldn’t remember who this one had belonged to but couldn’t find it in himself to care. It wasn’t his. He drew it anyway.

_“Not even worth the effort.”_

///

They fought valiantly in the cage, all of them, but even they were no match for the archangel.

Lucifer stood on his blade, trapping both it and his hand. He was cornered and pinned. No way out this time. Castiel stared up at Lucifer, ready to die.

“So, last words?”

Castiel felt the grate of the cage pushing uncomfortably into his spine as he pressed himself a little closer to the walls. Wait, no. It wasn’t his spine. His last possession, the body of a dead man.

Castiel’s mind raced through everything he had put the Novak family through, how he had destroyed it, all for nothing. If he gave it up to defeat the Darkness, maybe it would mean something. Maybe he could finally start to atone.

“Can you really beat her?”

“I can,” Lucifer assured.

“Then yes.”

Castiel looked over to the Winchesters as white light faded and Lucifer took over. They were huddled together on the other side of the cage, Dean checking on Sam and helping him up.

_“You help, but Sam and Dean are the real heroes.”_

He had made the right decision, for once in his life, Castiel realized. He had never been part of their family. The least he could do was prevent theirs from being broken, what he should have done for the Novaks. Dean and Sam had each other; they would be okay without him.

With that, he let go of his control voluntarily for the first time in his life.

///

He was pleasantly surprised to find his mind was much like the Bunker. Some doors were locked, but it didn’t bother him and he didn’t wonder about it. The kitchen was open and there was his seat by the bulletin board, a television right in front of it. How he loved the television.

A pleasant numbness washed over him as he watched some old cartoon. The vibrant colors were easy to drown himself in, as was the humor. Finally, he was somewhere where he wouldn’t hurt anyone. He wasn’t doing anything wrong and he was truly useful for the first time in months. Years, even.

He lost track of the time as he sat there, enamored. There was nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. Why would he go elsewhere?

The cheerful voices of his show drowned out prayers. He could hear echoes of them sometimes, but he didn’t miss them. He had never been able to answer them in full, no, he screwed up everything that he touched. It was better to be sequestered away here, someplace warm and safe, than to risk making more mistakes.

A face flitted across his screen every now and again. A real face, not a cartoon. He stared in confusion as they vanished again. A familiar face, wasn’t it? He could never remember anymore. Time had lost meaning; his memories had blurred into one. Soon enough, he forgot.

He sank deeper into himself, there by the bulletin board. This was his place, his little nook of safety and security where he wasn’t disturbed, where he was useful and content. He was a divine tool, a hammer, if you would. This was where he intended to stay.


End file.
